What Do You Need?
by SweeneyGirl310593
Summary: Four of the many times Molly Hooper was there for Sherlock Holmes and one time he was there for her. Snapshots from across the seasons. Eventual reciprocated!Sherlolly. Rating may change. Please read and review.
1. Through the Fall

A.N. Or Four Times Molly Hooper was There for Sherlock Holmes and One Time he was There for Her. Eventual two sided Sherlolly. Please let me know what you think.

Molly's day had been very unsettling so it was with some relief that she switched the lights out in the supply cupboard of the lab and made her way out of there. She had no idea what time it was. She only knew that she needed to get home and sleep. Thank God she wasn't on shift tomorrow.

Suddenly, all thought of what she had in the fridge for dinner (or very early breakfast depending on traffic) was banished by a soft baritone voice that made her flinch in surprise. "You're wrong, you know. You do count." Sherlock stood with his back to her, staring at the wall, indulging in his normal habit of making his presence known suddenly. Molly had once asked him if Scotty had beamed him there. A poor attempt at a joke, she realised, and he hadn't picked up on the reference anyway. "You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right." He turned to face her. He would have looked and sounded quite calm to the casual, indifferent observer. But it was well known that Molly _was_ anything but indifferent to this man. Well, by anyone but him, at any rate. "I'm not okay." She could hear the strain in his voice, more sincere than any time she could remember and her instinct was to help, to take whatever the problem was away.

"Tell me what's wrong"

"Molly, I think I'm going to die." She felt her chest tighten and her eyes prickle.

"What do you need?" She asked a little frantically.

"If I wasn't everything you think I am, everything *i* think I am. Would you still want to help me?"

This time her voice was stronger "what do you need?"

His blue-green eyes focused like laser sights on her and his voice dropped to a low murmur that shot directly to her heart "You".

'Then that's what you'll have' she found herself thinking.

A few short hours had brought a grey morning light and thrown Molly's mind into turmoil. She supposed she should have seen something like this coming one day. His requests had always been outlandish. And ever since she had met him while they were both in the process of studying for PhDs she had answered them to the best of her ability. Once upon a time, he had been largely anonymous, eschewing public credit for his extraordinary contributions to justice. A solved puzzle was its own reward. Between John's blog and a growing pool of increasingly high profile clients and associates, not to mention the British press, Sherlock's reputation had spread. It was only a matter of time before he attracted his equal and opposite and things came to a head between them.

Jim Moriarty. It made Molly shudder to think that that twisted individual had pretended to date her for months. A man who had strapped bombs to human beings and thought it fun. There she'd been, cuddling on her sofa with him, watching crap TV and all the time it had been nothing more than a chore carried out as part of a sick game with Sherlock. She should have seen the signs that he had something to hide. He had always been too quick to smile and appease her in conversation and whenever they had a night in, it had always been at her place. He never even told her where he lived. She was certainly no Sherlock, that was for sure.

Now she stood by a second story window, holding a dead body on the bench next to the sill, a body chosen to superficially resemble Sherlock. She was waiting for the signal she hoped wouldn't come. If she received the words 'goodbye Molly. I'm sorry', then she was to hurl the body of one Freddie Harris out of the window. Quite how he had managed to arrange to fake his death she didn't know or care. She just didn't want it to happen. Because then he'd have to disappear from all their lives. Perhaps for good.

Yet here she was, willing to do whatever was necessary to keep everyone safe. 'The things we do for love' she mused.

Suddenly her phone buzzed, the screen illuminating on the bench next to her. Under the name Sherlock, the words she had dreaded for the past hour were visible. A few moments later, she saw the flash of dark fabric and dark hair as Sherlock fell past the window to his 'death'. She took a deep breath, committing to her part in this deception, and hurled the body she held down to the street below.

It had been a week and Sherlock's 'suicide' was still all the domestic news could talk about. Wherever she happened to be, Molly couldn't get away from it. It wasn't real, she knew that, but it hurt like it had been. Still, she could manage to deal with it when she was away from those who knew him. If she avoided certain TV channels and didn't engage in conversation about current affairs she could forget the subject for a while. Of course it hadn't been easy. For one thing, Sherlock's older brother, who had lurked at the corners of her awareness before, had contacted her the day after the younger Holmes had apparently hurled himself from a hospital roof to remind her of his 'confidence in your complete discretion in this matter'. Mycroft had accompanied this with some dark inferences about his position that Molly knew should have frightened her. All she could do, however, was snort. Apparently theatrics ran in the family. Of course Sherlock could rely on her!

What Molly couldn't handle were the lies. The idea that Sherlock was a disturbed attention seeker who had built a career out of fabricating cases to solve was so absurd that the press had eagerly swallowed it. It fit their normal pattern. Find a star or hero to raise to fame, only to pull the rug from under them and watch them fall. Sometimes there would be a redemption story to make a nice circular narrative.

The lies had particularly hurt Molly when she sat in the break room reading a copy of a magazine that was guaranteed not to feature anything of importance and had overheard her coworkers discussing their belief in the 'Sherlock was a Fraud' theory.

"Bloody coward. Commits all those crimes and can't face the music." Sean was saying.

"No one said he committed actual crimes. He just staged them and lied to the police about it." Answered Briony, looking up from her salad to join in the conversation.

"Last time I checked, Bri, that in itself was a crime." Danny chipped in.

"Yeah I guess." She shrugged.

"Well I think we all agree that we're glad to see the back of the smug git, don't we?". Sean had a habit of doing that. Speaking for everyone in the room like his usually false opinion was gospel. Finally Molly spoke. She hadn't meant to but she wouldn't let this one slide.

"I don't" she said shortly, her lips thinning in anger.

"Don't worry, Mols. No one blames you for being taken in too. Especially when you were so...taken *with* him. I know how it is. He had that aloof, Mr. Darcy thing going on. You wouldn't be the first girl who's fallen for something like that."

'You bastard'. Molly glared at him, then at the other two occupants of the room. "You're all wrong about him. He really was as brilliant as everyone said. None of you know a thing about it. You didn't know him. You didn't work with him. I...I just hope that when the truth finally comes out you feel ashamed of yourselves. Saying such horrible things. Sherlock Holmes was many things but never a fraud." She felt herself perilously close to tears so she picked up her mug and deposited it with a rattling clunk in the dishwasher, leaving the room with barely a backward glance.

She did just have time to hear Briony say "not cool, Sean!" and him reply "Come on, you were thinking it too. She's delusional. Its sad, really..."

Molly felt her face flush and her eyes stinging hotly as she stalked back to the morgue and set about an autopsy of one Arnold Smith with slightly more vigour than was strictly necessary. The truth would out in the end. It always did.


	2. Empty Coffins in Empty Hearses

In stories weather is often described to set the mood. No wedding is ever rainy and creepy happenings occur under the chilly, ethereal light of a full moon. Of course, in real life the weather and nature do not care what happens to the people caught up in their rhythms. Sad occasions can be accompanied by sunshine and birdsong. However, on this particular morning, Molly thought the iron grey cloud cover and flecks of rain on her flat's windows were very appropriate for the event she had planned today. The funeral of Sherlock Holmes was bound to be a very somber affair. She glanced despondently at the demure, smart black dress hanging from her bathroom door and scratched behind Toby's comforting black ears. He nuzzled into her fingers, looking almost quizzically up at the dour expression she must be wearing. She took a deep breath as she slid, slightly lethargically, from the corner of her bed.

"Right, let's get on with it" she murmured to herself.

Molly barely listened to the service. She was too preoccupied with her own thoughts. She felt angry at both Sherlock and Moriarty for necessitating this tragic farce and guilty for the resentment towards the former as well as her own part in the deception. It was causing so much heartache. For a man who was, on the face of it, very anti-social, Sherlock's funeral was pretty full. Clients and informants who had kept in touch, various police officers and the select group who called themselves his friends were all present. She was currently sitting between Greg and Mrs. Hudson who herself sat next to John. Mycroft had seated himself at a pew on the opposite side of the secular chapel. Greg kept sniffing stoically and blinking rapidly, Mrs Hudson sobbed quietly and held on to John and Molly's hands between wiping her eyes and nose with tissues. As for John, he stared straight ahead and at whoever was speaking, looking, for want of an expression less sensitive for a former soldier, shell-shocked and considerably older than he had a couple of months ago when he was still the flatmate and friend of the most intelligent eccentric in London.

Molly was suddenly taken back to the day they had all dubbed 'the Fall'. She had stared down from the window as John rounded the corner. She had seen the horror and devastation on his face as well as the desperation with which he had grasped at Sherlock's apparently limp wrist, searching for a non existent pulse. Knowing she had helped put that look and the pain behind it there had been awful then but today was almost unbearable. She looked down at the tears that had fallen into her own lap as they shone on the dark fabric for an instant before being leeched into it.

The only part of it she had really paid attention to was a poetry reading Mycroft gave. No introduction, no frills, he had just stood up at the lectern and read, his voice clear and unbroken.

"Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die."

Molly looked up slightly more sharply than she should have done. Was that reading not a little close to the mark for comfort? 'I did not die', for goodness sake? Thankfully she was apparently the only one who attached any significance to the poem. "Didn't expect that" murmured Mrs. Hudson quietly. John was positively glaring at Mycroft. The elder Holmes and his brother had arranged for it to appear as though Mycroft's error in judgement had led Sherlock into danger. John had bought into that ruse as much as the rest. Molly looked into her lap again.

There was something very satisfying about the sound and feeling of sliding one's key into the lock of one's door after a hellish day. After the service everyone had drifted away. Before she got a lift home with Greg, she had sought John and Mrs. Hudson out to say goodbye. The kindly landlady gave her a watery smile and a hug as well as an invitation for a cup of tea the following day. She would go (she didn't have the heart to disappoint Mrs. Hudson) but given the circumstances she felt like every meeting with them was going to feel dishonest for a long while. John had managed a hug but the expression was too tight to be a smile. He glanced over at Sherlock's grave and the look in his eyes made Molly want to pull him aside. She fought a very strong impulse to tell him everything. But Sherlock had a plan and she would help him see it through. "If you want anything..." She told him with a gentle squeeze to his shoulder.

"Thanks Molly. I'll...see you soon."

"Okay" she had nodded, doubting it as he walked towards the cemetery's newest grave.

On their way back, she and Greg had decided to go for a couple of drinks at the usual place so it was dark by the time she got home, tossing the keys into a pot her nephew had made her before they had moved to Australia. She looked at the clock, wondering whether it was an acceptable time to go to bed yet. Upon discovering that it was half past seven she decided 'to hell with it' and crawled into bed anyway.

She was woken by a sharp buzz and a flood of blue light from her bedside table. With a groan, she glanced at her alarm clock. The digital display read 9.58pm. She pawed at her phone, still half conscious. She was quickly alert once she read the text from 'Unknown Number'. There was only one person who it could be, really.

"I need you to look at something at Barts. Call this number when you get to the morgue. After that, delete this text. Make sure you're alone. Will talk soon." - SH

Molly was half tempted to just ignore it or tell him to piss off. But this was Sherlock. He would have a compelling reason. With a heavy sigh of regret, Molly left the warm cacoon of blankets to pull on some clothes. She considered a shower but decided the night shift wouldn't care much about her appearance and she really wanted to get this over with so she could sleep in till lunchtime tomorrow. Molly laughed at the absurdity of the situation as she stepped into the chilly November air to await her lift. She was heading into work at nearly half past ten on a friday night at the behest of a man who's funeral she had attended that same day to examine a body for him. Such was her life.

When her taxi pulled up outside St. Bartholomew's Hospital it was still a hive of activity. Friday night in central London always felt like happy hour at the A and E departments of the city's hospitals. Her destination was somewhat quieter. She was half dreading the awkward questions from her shift counterparts considering everyone knew she had taken personal leave for a funeral today. Luckily they were nowhere to be found. Obviously taking their break. Once she was in the morgue proper and was sure she would be alone for at least half an hour, she rang the number Sherlock had texted her on. After two rings the line clicked.

"Ah Molly. Still awake I see-"

"Well actually-" she began.

"Right. I need you to tell me the names of all the deceased that arrived at the morgue within the last twenty four hours." Sherlock interrupted.

"Oookay. Why?"

"I've done all I can here. All leads point to one of ten locations in various Eastern European states. The names will narrow my search for the loose ends."

Molly pulled up the files on the computer system, wedging her phone between her ear and shoulder. "You know not all of the bodies may have been identified yet?"

"Yes Molly, I'm aware of how a morgue works." Even over the phone she could see his lofty expression and she rolled her eyes. As she finished the list of names it became clear that this was not yielding the results Sherlock had hoped for. He actually growled down the line.

"Wait" Molly interrupted "we have a John Doe. Let me just take a look at him." Molly opened the drawer with a screech of stainless steel. She winced slightly at the sight that greeted her. Whoever had killed this man hadn't wanted him recognised so had dealt blunt force trauma to the face, destroying the facial features. She doubted his own mother would have been able to recognise him.

"One of the men I'm looking for has a rather tasteless tattoo of half a skull with rotted teeth on his left bicep. He also has extensive scarring from burns extending from his forehead to his third rib."

"You're in luck, Sherlock. So does this John Doe."

She could hear a smile of satisfaction coming down the line now. "Excellent! The thread's back in my hands! Good evening Molly."

"Wait!" She called out "how does that help? Where's it sending you?"

A pause crackled over the line. "I can't tell you that, for obvious reasons. By tomorrow morning I must have left the country. I trust I can still count on your confidence?"

Not this question again! "No one will know anything until you get back. You...you will be back, Sherlock?" Molly frowned at how worried she sounded and the time it took for him to respond.

"See you again, Molly. Goodnight and thank you." Came the reply before the phone bleeped. Sherlock had hung up.

Molly stared at the device. She was tempted to keep the number. Just to make sure he was alight. But no. She was unwilling to take such risks with the detective's safety and to go against his wishes. With a few taps, the job was done.

A.N. The poem used was 'Do Not Stand by my Grave and Weep' by Mary Elizabeth Frye. Hope this did the situation and characters justice...


End file.
